Lachlan
The first month was hell. I was sore, bruised, and frustrated. The moment I'd get something right, I'd screw up another part of it. Chiron would just nod and make me do it again. And again.
"You're too stiff," he'd tell me when I couldn't land a clean hit. "You're thinking too much. Don't think. Just move."
And move I did. Slowly at first, like I was learning to walk again. But then something clicked—an epiphany that made it all fall into place. It wasn't about strength or speed; it was about precision. About timing.
Then, about a month in, Chiron put me through an endurance test.
"Fight me," he said, standing in front of me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
I blinked. "What?"
"You heard me," he said, his voice low and serious. "Fight me. Don't hold back."
I could feel the adrenaline start to pump through me, the sudden shift in the air around us. My fists tightened, my stance shifted as I got into position. This wasn't going to be some casual sparring session. He was giving me a challenge.
The first few moments were a blur of quick movements, Chiron easily dodging everything I threw his way. I knew I wasn't going to win—he was faster, stronger, and more experienced. But that didn't stop me from trying. I pushed myself harder, trying to land just one hit. And when I did, it felt like I'd just conquered a mountain. It wasn't much—just a small jab to his side—but it was enough to make me believe that I could do this. That I could get better.
As the days passed, I began to see improvements. My punches got sharper. My footwork became more fluid. My defense was tighter. It felt good. But Chiron was always a few steps ahead of me, guiding me, pushing me to become something more. Sometimes, I felt like I couldn't keep up. Like maybe I wasn't cut out for this after all. But Chiron's voice would always break through that self-doubt, his presence reminding me why I was here.
One evening, after an intense sparring session, Chiron wiped his face with a towel and gave me a rare nod of approval. "Good. You're getting there, Lachlan. But remember—training's only part of it. The fight doesn't start in the ring. It starts in here." He pointed at my head. "And here." He tapped his chest.
I didn't understand at first, but now I do. The hardest battles aren't physical. They're mental.
A month and a half in, Chiron stopped pushing me so hard. He could see I was starting to get it. Instead of constant drills, he started introducing more complex situations. We'd practice with distractions. I'd have to block out noise, stay focused on him even when everything else around me was chaotic. At first, it was brutal, but slowly, I learned how to tune it out, how to stay sharp even when my brain wanted to wander.
It wasn't easy. Every muscle in my body aches from the constant repetition. Every bruise from a misstep serves as a reminder of how far I still have to go. But there's something different now. I'm not just training for the sake of it anymore. There's a purpose.
And with each session, I feel like I'm getting closer to something—something I can't quite explain yet. But I know it's important. I'm learning how to fight. How to move. How to think. I'm getting better, I feel better.
It's been a month and a half since I last saw Delilah. A month and a half since that stupid, awkward moment when she practically shut me out, tossing me aside like I was nothing more than a passing interest. I've been busy, lost in training with Chiron, pushing myself to become something different, something better. I've let her fade into the background, or at least I've tried to.
But, of course, the universe has a way of tossing things back into your face when you least expect it.
I'm walking down the street, hands in my pockets, mind focused on the upcoming workout with Chiron, when I see them—Delilah and Samson—across the street, laughing and talking like they've been friends for years. It's like I can't even get a break. The sight of them together makes something dark stir in my chest. I'd told myself I was over it, that I didn't care, but seeing them again, it still hurts. That's the thing about pride—it's easy to convince yourself that you're fine, that you don't need anyone. But the moment reality hits, you realize how fragile that armor really is.
I stop in my tracks, my stomach twisting as I watch Delilah's smile. It's wide, full of that same warmth I thought was only reserved for me. But it's not. It's for him now. Samson. The guy with the blonde hair and the cocky grin.
For a split second, I consider turning around and walking the other way. Pretending I didn't see them. But I'm not that guy anymore. I've got too much pride for that.
I push myself forward, not quite sure what I'm going to say or do, but I know I'm not going to just let them act like I'm invisible.
As I step closer, Delilah spots me first. Her eyes flicker in my direction, and for a second, it's like time slows. She freezes for just a moment, and then her lips pull into that same smile. The smile she gave me the day we were supposed to catch up. The smile that makes you think she cares, but you know it's a little too rehearsed, a little too practiced.
As I stand there, watching Delilah and Samson talk, I can't shake the feeling of being out of place. I thought maybe we could go back to how things were, but now, seeing them together, I know it's not possible. The distance between us is palpable, and I'm not sure if I'm the one who put it there, or if it's always been there.
Then Delilah sees me. Her eyes flicker briefly, and for a moment, I think I might catch a glimpse of something familiar—maybe even a flicker of warmth. But when she looks at me again, it's cold. Too cold.
She straightens up, her posture perfect and distant, like she's already bracing for something. She's not happy to see me. In fact, it's almost like my presence annoys her.
"Lachlan." Her voice is sharp, just enough to sting. No excitement. No joy. Nothing like the Delilah I thought I knew.
I feel a knot form in my stomach. There's no warmth in her eyes, no recognition of the history we shared. She's acting like I'm a stranger. Maybe that's what I am to her now. Just someone she used to know.
Samson, noticing the tension in the air, gives me a casual nod. His gaze flickers between Delilah and me, but it's clear he's already claimed his spot. He's comfortable here, his stance relaxed, like he's the one in control of this situation. I can feel it in the way he looks at me.
"Hey," I say, trying to keep things cool. I don't want to show that her coldness is affecting me, but it's hard. I'm not used to this from her. Not like this. "What's up?"
Delilah doesn't even bother to mask her indifference. "Not much." Her eyes barely meet mine as she answers, her tone flat, like she's offering me nothing. She's dismissive. Detached.
The words hit me like a slap. The woman I thought cared about me—hell, the woman I cared about—has turned into a stranger. A stranger who doesn't care enough to hide the fact that I'm nothing to her anymore.
I can feel my anger start to simmer beneath the surface, but I push it down. There's no point in making a scene. I can't let her see that I'm affected. Not now.
"I see you've been busy." I force a grin, my voice steady despite the burning frustration building inside me. "Samson, right?" I don't even wait for her to confirm it. The guy's standing there like he owns the place, and she's playing along like she's in on the act.
"Yeah," Delilah replies, barely sparing me a glance as she turns her full attention to Samson. "We've been hanging out a lot. You know, just doing stuff." She says the words without emotion, and I can't help but feel a sting at how casually she brushes off everything we've shared. Just doing stuff. That's all we were to her.
My stomach churns.
Samson, oblivious or just not caring, gives me a half-hearted grin. "Good to see you again, man. Delilah's been telling me about you."
What's she been saying? I almost ask, but the thought of her sharing anything about me with him makes me sick to my stomach.
"I'm sure she has," I mutter, forcing my gaze to remain steady, even though I want to turn and walk away, disappear from this scene.
It's obvious now—Delilah isn't the girl I thought she was. She's not the one who'd laugh with me, cry with me, lean on me when the world felt too heavy. She's cold. Distant. She's already moved on.
And I'm just... here. Stuck in the past, holding onto something she let go of long ago.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the feeling of rejection.
"Well, it was... nice running into you two," I say, my voice clipped. I turn to walk away, but just before I do, I hear her voice again.
"Lachlan."
I stop, my hand on the doorknob of the nearby café, but I don't turn around.
"Yeah?" I ask, my voice betraying none of the hurt I'm feeling.
Delilah's words are icy. "Don't make it awkward, okay? I'm just... not the same person anymore. It's just how things are. I'm... busy with Samson now. So, you know, just... don't make this harder."
That's it. Just like that. No apology. No explanation. She doesn't even offer me the decency of a goodbye.
I don't respond. What's the point? There's nothing left to say.
I turn and leave without another word, the door closing behind me with a finality that feels suffocating.
The air outside feels colder than it did before. The world seems a little less bright. But I don't look back. Not this time.
I can't let her control me. Not anymore.
The day after running into Delilah and Samson, I can't shake the feeling of being unsettled. I tell myself it's nothing—just a moment in time that doesn't matter. But deep down, I know it does. She's moved on, and I'm just a ghost in her past. But I can't help but replay the scene in my mind, wondering how quickly I became insignificant to her.
As I sit on the couch, flipping through the channels, I mindlessly land on a sports network. I'm half-distracted, my mind still heavy from the encounter yesterday. That's when I see him. Samson.
His face fills the screen.
It's a brief shot of a fight, but there's no mistaking it. The blonde hair, that cocky grin, the undeniable confidence—Samson. But the thing that catches my attention even more is the title below his face.
Middleweight Champion.
I sit up straight, eyes glued to the screen.
It's like a punch to the gut, like I've been hit with something I wasn't prepared for. I stare at the screen, trying to process the words, the images. I'm watching a highlight reel of his career—big matches, fast fists, a string of victories. The announcer is going on about his rise through the ranks, the power and technique he possesses, how he's been an unstoppable force in the ring.
I feel my pulse quicken. World Champion. Of course. It makes sense now. The way he carries himself, the arrogance, the way he didn't even seem to care when he saw me. He's been trained, honed into something far beyond what I ever could've expected. Delilah's with him—not just some random guy, but an actual world-class fighter.
My brain spins, thoughts colliding. How could I have not known? How could I have missed the signs? All the times he casually sized me up, how he'd looked at me like I was beneath him. The way Delilah seemed to light up around him. He wasn't just any guy. He was someone far beyond what I'd ever imagined.
I replay the moment in my mind—Samson's easy smile, the way he seemed to own everything, the way Delilah was laughing with him like I didn't even exist. Was she always into him because of his status? Did I mean nothing to her?
The questions flood in, and the more I think about it, the more my chest tightens. She wasn't just dating some guy. She was with a champion—a fighter who had earned his place at the top of the world. She's probably more enamored with his success, his power, than anything about me. And the worst part is... I let myself believe I had a chance. I let myself get caught up in someone who wasn't even looking at me the way I thought.
I grab the remote, flicking off the TV, but the image of Samson still lingers in my mind. The shot of him in the ring, victorious, powerful—it's all I can see. The reality of what I'm up against hits me hard.
I'm not a world champion. I'm not even close.
I clench my fists, the frustration building inside me. I don't care what Delilah sees in him. I don't care that he's a fighter and I'm still learning. I will be better. I'll prove to myself that I'm not just some guy to be left behind.
Chiron's training, everything he's been teaching me—it's not just about learning how to fight. It's about proving that I can stand up for myself, for my own future. Delilah might be with him, but that doesn't mean I'm done. I'm far from it.
I push myself off the couch, the anger rising in my chest, but this time, it's different. This time, it feels like fuel. I've been complacent for too long, letting things happen to me, letting myself be pushed around. I'm going to change that.
As I lace up my shoes and head out the door, the memory of Samson's face stays in my mind. But now, I'm not just angry. I'm motivated.